Left to Fear (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Ten)

by Blake Pierce

  “Think he's still on board?” John asked in a low voice, following after her.

  “Larsen said no one had a chance to disembark yet,” Adele replied, firmly, her hands bunched at her side. “The killer is still on board. He has to be.”

  The riverboat itself was in port, waiting on the side of the river, and for a moment it seemed as if everything were hanging in the balance, waiting for something, hovering on the crest of action. Adele, even from where she strode towards the gangplank, could hear the disgruntled murmurings of the waterlogged passengers.

  She could glimpse the frowns, and the fierce, whispered conversations. A few eyes fell from the railing above, fixating on Adele and John as they moved nearer.

  “Foucault reach you yet?” Adele muttered beneath her breath.

  “No. I, er, keep missing him.”

  “Right. I bet you do. John, we have a lot of witnesses here. Please don't do anything stupid.”

  “Yes, American Princess. Though, if you ask me, getting on a hunk of floating metal in the middle of a river is pretty dumb to begin with.”

  A couple of the police officers nodded as Adele and John flashed credentials and ducked under caution tape, moving up the ramp towards the riverboat. The small gateway was opened by a porter in a black suit, who gestured at them, wincing as he did.

  “Are you with BKA?” the man said, quickly.

  “Interpol,” Adele replied reflexively. “Mr. Larsen call ahead?”

  The porter bobbed his head, waving a hand towards the second deck. “Come, come,” he jabbered. “There are already police up there.”

  They took the metal stairs, ignoring the fixated glares of the waiting passengers around them, and as they reached the long deck at the top, like an alleyway with one side overlooking a sharp drop, Adele noticed a long section of the deck had been cleared. The doors, here, lining the ship were opened, where breeze and small droplets of rain could enter with a swirl. At the far end of the deck, though, next to another, wider, taller door, there stood five police officers gathered. Some of them seemed to be moving around with evidence bags. One was speaking to a man who looked like the coroner. And two others were keeping a watchful eye on the surrounding passengers.

  Adele gave a soft, shuddering sigh, but swallowed it back and turned to regard their guide. “Anything you can tell me about that room?” She nodded towards where most the caution tape had been used.

  “It's a bathroom,” the man replied, reflexively, his arms and legs straight like some sort of military personnel as he marched them along the rail in the direction of the crime scene.

  “A bathroom?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “And this bathroom was available to the public?”

  “It is, yes. But it isn't used as much as the ones on the lower deck, where most of the passengers linger.”

  “I see. And when was the body found?”

  “I—I don't know. I wasn't the one who found it. But we rerouted the ship about three hours ago.”

  Adele glanced at her watch and gave a little sigh. That would mean the killer had struck no earlier than five PM. It was now eight.

  She provided a quick nod of gratitude to their guide as they reached the open door surrounded by police, and, after showing her ID again, she moved into the crime scene with John behind her.

  Three other officers were examining the bathroom, two of them canvasing the sink, and one standing near the main object of attraction beneath a hand dryer.

  Adele paused, frowning at the body.

  Once a young woman with golden curls, her red dress now wilted around her. She lay motionless, one of her eyes open, as if staring accusingly at Adele.

  A second later, Adele heard John mutter a series of oaths behind her, and she felt the tall Frenchman brush past her as he approached the body, his shoulders hunched as if against a sudden blast of chill wind.

  "Christ," John said, muttering darkly beneath his breath. "How did she die?" He shot this question towards one of the officers standing nearest the body.

  The man winced, and, also in English, said, "Choked on a piece of red dress. We have it bagged.” He added, in a faint murmur, “And cleaned up some of the vomit."

  Adele wrinkled her nose, feeling a jolt of grief accompanying the rage burbling inside her chest. She hated this killer. Whoever he was, whatever his motives, he seemed to be targeting defenseless young women. Isolating them and attacking when they were helpless.

  "Did anyone see anything?" she asked.

  The officer's eyes bounced from John to her. "We still have people questioning the passengers, but so far nothing. Apparently, this portion of the deck wasn't well traversed."

  Adele sighed, nodded, glancing at the sink, and towards the soap dispenser.

  The police officer cleared his throat. "One of the faucets was running when she was found. If that means anything."

  "Probably means the killer struck when she was washing her hands," Adele said, softly. "I'm not sure that helps us though."

  John turned his back on the victim, wincing, as if he couldn't quite take the sight. He raised up one finger, "A young woman. Just like the other two. Choked to death on something from her person." He held up a second finger. “Also like the others.”

  "Do we know her name yet?" Adele said shooting the question towards the officer. The man nodded, and with a knowing tone and tilt of his eyebrows, said, "Abigail Havertz. The daughter of that famous TV chef. The one who owns that restaurant chain."

  Adele frowned, shaking her head. "I don't know it."

  To her surprise, it was John who interjected, "You don't know the Havertz restaurant chain? I'm surprised, Adele."

  She looked at him. "How do you?"

  John coughed. "The commercials are very," he coughed delicately, "interesting."

  The police behind John snickered, and said, "You mean that one actress who plays the hostess? She should do movies."

  Adele rolled her eyes. "All right, forget I asked.” Her tone went somber, regarding John with a long, meaningful look. “So we have another heiress, then. A wealthy, young woman killed by choking on one of these riverboats owned by Sightseeing Incorporated. Is that about the gist of it?"

  John shook his head, rubbing his jaw. "How is he targeting these people? He definitely seems to have a knowledge of the boats. He knew this bathroom would be empty. He knew he would have privacy to do what he wanted."

  "We need those manifests." Adele glanced back at her phone and felt her temper rise. Mr. Larsen had been hardly forthcoming about sending the crew or passenger information. He'd said he get them to her three hours ago.

  "Think we should go a legal route?" John asked.

  Adele gnawed on the corner of her lip. "Maybe Foucault knows a judge who'd be willing to do a favor on short notice."

  John crossed his arms. "Do you think the killer is still on board?"

  "The boat makes a few stops," Adele said, quietly. "But on the other hand, if the killer knows the scope of these boats, maybe he's an employee or an overnighter; it's worth a shot. We need to keep the passengers on the boat. And we need to contact the executive to figure out a way to make Sightseeing Incorporated cough up those manifests."

  At that moment, there was a flurry of voices from outside, and Adele frowned, turning towards the door. John shifted next to her as well. A second later, a man with a bicycler's physique, and a visible temper, was standing in the door, the hand of a police officer at his shoulder, trying to pull him back.

  "I represent this boat," the man was snarling, "get your monkey paws off me.” The moment his eyes landed on Adele and John, though, the man hesitated. He coughed delicately, wincing once, and then tapped a finger to his ear. "I'm sorry," said Mr. Larsen, the liaison for Sightseeing Incorporated. "I couldn't help but hear you talking about getting a judge involved.”

  Adele frowned, approaching the man in the door, giving a little nod towards the police officer who lowered his hand. "You promised me those manifests h
ours ago. Where are they?"

  Larsen winced, and tugged at his collar, shifting uncomfortably beneath Adele's glare. "Things like that take time. I had to jump through some hoops myself. They're coming your way."

  "Let me be clear," Adele said, "you're either going to send those to me within the next five minutes, for all three of these ships, or I'm going to get a judge to shut down your entire business for a month while we investigate. Understand?"

  The man winced uncomfortably, and he looked like he wanted to protest further, but his eyes slid from Adele's face, and landed on the body of Abigail Havertz in the back of the bathroom. The moment he did, his eyes widened like saucers, and he froze in place, his face going pale all of a sudden. He let out a soft little squeak, and then massaged the bridge of his nose. "All right," he said, shakily. "I'll get those to you."

  "Five minutes," Adele said, firmly. "I mean it.”

  Mr. Larsen give a little wave of his hand. "Fine, done. Like I said, I needed to jump through some hoops. But I got the permissions I needed. Look, I know this looks bad... But we can't keep the passengers locked on the boat like this... Imagine what they'll think!” In a smaller, more pitiable voice, he added, beneath his breath, “Imagine the reviews... If we could just let them leave—”

  "No," Adele said, cutting him off and shaking her head simply. "We're doing things my way now. You, for the sake of your own ass better get out of the way and sit down. I told you to dock these boats. And now because of you, she's dead. Get a good look." Adele stepped aside, like a presenter, revealing a prize. She glared at the side of Mr. Larsen face. "Take it in. That's you're doing. Get me those manifests. The passengers are staying on board until we sort out who's who. All of this could have been avoided if you would have just listened to me."

  Mr. Larsen looks like he wanted to protest, but Adele spoke first, iron in her voice, "Four minutes."

  He cursed softly, and turned on his heel, fishing his phone out of his pocket, and shouldering roughly past one of the police officers, muttering darkly as he did. Adele watched him retreat to the rail and begin to jabber away into his phone. They needed those manifests to check the passengers on each of the ships. Three victims, three different ships. The killer was moving fast. He knew the scope and lay of the boats. He seemed to know the routes traveled. The killer was targeting young women, all of them from wealth. But why?

  "Adele," John said suddenly.

  She turned, frowning; she watched as John bent over the corpse and delicately extracted something from behind the woman's head, which had been trapped, out of sight in the shadows of the sink and the air dryer.

  "What is it?"

  In answer, John just lifted and turned the thing in his hand. A rose, with a note taped to the stem.

  Adele blinked. "He left something? He didn't leave anything before..."

  John just shrugged and pulled the note from where it was taped to the rose. He tossed the flower into the sink, but then held up the note, and, slowly, began to read, in English:

  Mr. and Mrs. Akbulut. I am very sorry for your loss. We all feel it greatly. I'm sure Zeynep misses you just as much as you miss her. My sincerest condolences. Some things just can't be avoided, I suppose. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

  -M-

  P.S. Mr. and Mrs. Blythe. Your daughter, Anika, was a real gem. She misses you too.

  As the words fell still, so did everyone else in the room, as if poised.

  Adele shifted uncomfortably, and shook her head. "He wrote a letter to the other two victims... I don't understand. Is he taunting them? Mocking the parents?"

  John nodded slowly. "Must be. Why?"

  "Do you think he's targeting the parents? Maybe he's killing the girls in order to make the parents suffer. Maybe this isn't even about the young women themselves.”

  At the same time she said it, Adele felt a flash of guilt, realizing how callous the words sounded standing so close to the body of Ms. Havertz. She winced, glancing in the direction of the young woman, then looked away again, regarding the note card in John's fingers.

  "Well," she said, softly, "our killer knows English. Maybe he just wanted to guarantee all the victims' families could read it."

  "So he's educated then, or a native speaker—tourist?" John said. "He's taunting the parents, the survivors. The rose is just another mockery."

  Adele shivered, shaking her head. Her phone buzzed. She glanced down, and her eyebrows went up.

  "What?" John said, sharply.

  "Don't worry," she muttered. "It's not Foucault. I just got three of the ship manifests."

  John whistled. "That little guy moves fast when he's motivated."

  Adele glanced towards the doorway that led back out onto the deck. Mr. Larsen was no longer within sight. She rocked back and forth on her heels, then turned away from the body, away from the crime scene, and moved back out to the open door. She needed some fresh air. "I'll send you the manifests," she said, quickly. "There's going to be a connection. Pay close attention to crew and employees. Also, keep an eye on any customers that stayed overnight. Anything that stands out, any connecting point, that's going to be our killer." She paused for a moment, one foot out onto the deck, the other still in the bathroom. She felt a little chill, but it had nothing to do with the breeze or the few droplets of rain.

  "What?" John said, softly.

  Adele gave a shake of her head. She winced. "I-I can't help but feel that he almost wants to be caught. This all feels desperate. This note, the taunting. It feels like he has an end in sight." Adele winced, shivered again, and then stepped onto the deck. "We need to catch him soon."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Adele and John both stood by the railing, their postures bowed, their phones precariously balanced over the edge, angled towards the waters below as they scrolled through the manifests with glazed eyes, the glowing screens like moonlight in the darkening night. Below them, John and Adele could see the many passengers gathered on the first deck. Adele felt her eyes drawn, every couple of moments, from the manifest, towards the crowd below. As she read the names, comparing them between the three boats, she wondered which names belonged to which people. Many eyes, many faces, looked up at her, regarding her with interest. John was scrolling through the manifests as well, though he seemed to be growing bored.

  The documents were opened as PDF files on her cell phone screen, and Adele's eyes traced through the names. There were over a hundred passengers below, on the deck, but on the manifests, only twenty employees. She compiled the list, moving all the names into the same spreadsheet. One at a time, she eliminated them, checking all the names in one row against the others. At last, she looked up, glancing at John, and feeling her pulse quickening.

  "I've got two," she said.

  John glanced at her, eyes widening. "Two names?"

  "Two employees."

  John quickly stowed his phone, "I also got two names. What were yours?"

  Adele pointed. “Guy Vierra and Pierre Manet," she said, slowly. "Look, Manet was a porter. Vierra is a chef. Both of them have been on all three ships during the times of the murders. In the case of the porter, it was a narrow squeeze, but he arrived just in time on River Metro Two to kill Zeynep."

  John nodded, glancing at the other name. "And Vierra?"

  "The chef. He's had ample time on all of the boats to commit the crime.”

  At that moment, Adele heard a softly clearing voice, and she glanced over to see Mr. Larsen standing at the top of the stairwell, watching them, with a speculative look. "Guy Vierra?" He said.

  Adele stared at Mr. Larsen, unsure how she felt about the man eavesdropping. But then, deciding to not make anything of it, she spoke curtly, in English, “Hello, Mr. Larsen. I appreciate the cooperation.”

  “Mhmm,” he grunted. “Whatever. Look, you mentioned Vierra's name, right? He's worked for the company in different ventures for nearly ten years. Only recently did we move him to the riverboats when this part of the business started a coupl
e of months ago. You think it's him?"

  "Is Mr. Vierra still on the ship?"

  "You haven't let anyone leave," he said in manner of reply.

  "Good. Take us to him." It wasn't a request. She didn't say it politely. With men like Mr. Larsen, an inch always became a mile. And so she couldn't give so much as a millimeter.

  The liaison for Sightseeing Incorporated gave her a long look from his reddened face. The lights from the ship, embedded in ceiling, glowed, reflecting off the rail, and illuminating his eyes. The raindrops still continued to come sparse and scattered, cool and chill against Adele's skin. But it wasn't anything compared to the cold look Mr. Larsen gave her. At last, though, he turned stiffly, and grumbling, said, beneath his breath, "Follow me. I'll show you to the kitchens."

  The kitchen was on the third deck, behind the bridge. As she pushed through a door marked, Employees Only and followed after Mr. Larsen, she watched men and women in black outfits moving about a small kitchen, preparing food for the rooms, or, likely, for the café below.

  “Chef Vierra!” Mr. Larsen shouted, suddenly, his voice carrying through the kitchens. A lull fell over the activities. Adele watched as a grease fire started, and it took the chef a second to notice. The man in question cursed, then smothered the fire. Then, shooting uneasy glances towards them, the same chef slowly extricated his fingers from the handle of the frying pan, cleared his throat and said, "Er, yes, Mr. Larsen?"

  The chef's face had gone pale, and a thin bead of sweat glazed his upper lip. He didn't wear one of those white hats, but he did wear an apron, black like the outfits of the rest of the employees. He took a timid step forward, rubbing nervously at his thigh. The man was wire thin—not at all what Adele would have thought for a chef. She could see his bones pressing against his cheeks, and even the top of his collarbone beneath his shirt.

  The man's fingers were long, and twiggy, and he rolled them uncomfortably against his thigh, leaving streaks of grease.

  "Come here," snapped Mr. Larsen, wiggling his hand like a master calling its puppy.